on to the romance that it leaves as definite an impression of
realism as any of Mr. Howells's purposely realistic stories. The scene
in the newspaper office, the picture of the prize-fight, the mixture of
toughs and swells, the spectators in their short gray overcoats with
pearl buttons (like most good story-tellers he was strong on the
tailoring touch), the talk of cabmen and policemen, the swiftness of
the way the story is told, as if he were in a hurry to let his reader
know something he had actually seen--create such an impression of truth
that when the reader finishes he finds himself picturing Gallegher on
the witness-stand at the murder trial receiving the thanks of the
judge. And he wonders what became of this precocious infant, and
whether he was rewarded in time by receiving the hand of the sister of
the sporting editor in marriage.

To give the appearance of truth to the truth is the despair of writers,
but Mr. Davis had the faculty of giving the appearance of the truth to
situations that in human experience could hardly exist. The same
quality that showed in his tales made him the most readable of war
correspondents. He went to all the wars of his youth and middle age
filled with visions of glorious action. Where other correspondents saw
and reported evil-smelling camps, ghastly wounds, unthinkable
suffering, blunders, good luck and bad luck, or treated the subject
with a mathematical precision that would have given Clausewitz a
headache, Davis saw and reported it first of all as a romance, and then
filled in the story with human details, so that the reader came away
with an impression that all these heroic deeds were performed by people
just like the reader himself, which was exactly the truth.

It is a pity that the brutality of the German staff officers and the
stupidity of the French and English prevented him from seeing the
actual fighting in Flanders and Picardy. The scene is an ugly one, a
wallow of blood and mire. But so probably were Agincourt and Crecy
when you come to think of it, and Davis, you may be sure, would have
illuminated the foul battle-field with a reflection of the glory which
must exist in the breasts of the soldiers.

The fact is, he was the owner of a most enviable pair of eyes, which
reported to him only what was pleasant and encouraging. A man is
blessed or cursed by what his eyes see. To some people the world of
men is a confused and undecipherable puzzle. To Mr. Davi